


Accidental Diamonds

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Earth C Shenanigans [16]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Earth C, Gen, dammit what's the name for my earth c au, day 5 of rarepairstuck 2020, everyone is alive ig, i sort of uh. got off track honestly, prompt was AU, these two do NOT know how to deal with a pale crush and it's legit funny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:54:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25182835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: You sit down on the edge of the pile. You set the dry erase board and markers aside. You move the blankets that seem to you to be too near his horns, carefully nudging a couple pillows over to replace them and wondering the wholefuckingtime why you care so much. There'snothingin this for you—if you'd gone pale for him back in the game sure, that'd make sense, you'd stand to gain something just from the amount of power the guy could work up if he wanted to—but no. You feel this shitnow, when he's given up the cool shit just because...Because what, exactly?Kurloz comes to Earth C, and Meenah gets to be the one to deal with it.
Relationships: Kurloz Makara & Meenah Peixes
Series: Earth C Shenanigans [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1059881
Comments: 25
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Day....5? of rarepairstuck 2020? uh, it was originally supposed to be like. a little mermaid AU except inverted and then i got distracted with how much of a disaster these two are.

You find him in the water and you drag him out of it, because even if you don't much care for clowns you're not a _total_ beach. Once he's laid out on his side in the weirdass colorless sand that the new world has, you verify that yes, he's breathing. Good; you glubbin' hate handling corpses when you weren't planning to.

Something's off about him, but that takes you another minute of sitting there and scowling at the unconscious indigo to figure out what it is. His paint's still somehow intact despite the dunking, but the stitches around his mouth aren't. Hell, they're not even there at all—just some scarring that looks old enough to be all the way healed over.

Huh.

"C'mon, wake up." You nudge him with your foot, not quite kicking at his shoulder. Then again, even closer to actual violence. "Get your ass up, Makara. Wakey wakey, rise and—"

His eyes snap open halfway through that, and you bite your tongue and try to scramble back. Yeah, maybe you shouldn't be pushing your luck like this? Sure, you'd be the Empress if blood color still meant anything, but indigos...they're different, almost misplaced in the hemospectrum, and Kurloz's whole line is especially dangerous. Him and his freaky-ass mind tricks...

But there's no violet glow to his eyes, just something that it takes you a second to recognize as fear. He's disoriented, he's probably not feeling too hot (what with drinking some saltwater and all) and he _did_ just wake up. Not all that calmly, thanks to you.

Okay, so you feel a little bad. Okay, so maybe you have a _teeny_ bit of a conscience. It's guppy-sized, but it's there, like it or not.

Which you don't, but you still sit down in the sand next to him and (awkwardly, because you've never been in a functional moiraillegence in your life) reach down to try and get a hand in his hair, at least _near_ the calming pressure points at the bases of his horns if you can't untangle the soaked mess to really get at them. "Just me. Meenah. Pretty shore you didn't forget me already, huh?"

Kurloz just stares at you for a moment, blinking a couple times like he's not sure what he's seeing. Then he lets out a breath and shifts to get his hands flat on the sand, pushing himself up to a slightly less horizontal position. You don't really expect anything verbal, not from him, but the weight of his thoughts in your head doesn't come either.

Instead, he raises both hands, signing out...something. Huh. You thought you understood most of the sign language he uses, but seems like a lot of that knowledge came right out of what _he_ knew, thanks to that telepathy.

Which he's not using.

And he's looking at you, probably expectantly. Even without the stitches he doesn't fuckin' emote properly, cod damn.

"Sorry, dude. Can't understand you."

Kurloz grimaces and glances around. After a moment's consideration, he scoots a few feet closer to the water, crossing the visible barrier between _dry_ sand and _wet_ sand and starting to write with one finger in the latter.

_COME ON, SISTER, I KNOW MEU TAUGHT ALL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS HOW TO SPEAK SILENTLY._

Well. He's right. But that was a long time ago, and Meulin reads lips with like, almost perfect (purrfect?) accuracy, and look, you destroyed a _universe_ since then. You _died_. You are allowed to fucking forget some things—,

Whoops, there's that conscience again. Dammit. "Hey, I pulled you out of the water, Makara. Could toss you back in."

He runs a hand over the words he's scratched into the sand, smoothing them out to make more. All this with his left hand; his right comes up, patting absently at your shoulder and adjusting one of the braids there to mirror the ones on the other side. _WANT TO BET? THE QUEEN BITCH OF THE SEA ISN'T GOING TO TAKE MY SORRY ASS BACK._

"Hey, 'scuse you, the only queen beach of the sea is _me_." Well, and maybe your dancestor, but...nah. Everyone loves Feferi. Everyone except you, since you still haven't met her. Nor will you. Just because there's people here who can raise the dead doesn't mean you should see if there's a limit to how many times you get, especially when you've already used one up...damn. "Stop looking at me like that."

_LIKE WHAT?_ Kurloz stops, considers what he's written, then adds a second question mark.

"Like you're reading my cod damn mind. If you're going to use the stupid-ass chucklevoodoos, you can fucking well talk to me instead of _this_ —"

Oh, he's writing again. You shut your mouth and lean over to try and read around his hand.

_TRADED THOSE AWAY. DIDN'T FIGURE YOU'D BE ALIVE BEFORE I CAME FROM THE BELLY OF THE BEAST, BUT THIS IS BETTER ANYWAY._

"...you traded the weird culty shit." When he nods, you wish he hadn't. This means you have to actually process it. "Traded it for _what_?"

Kurloz shrugs and spreads his arms. When you just stare at him in understandable confusion, he rolls his eyes and foes back to writing in the sand. _THIS. LIFE. HORRORTERRORS AIN'T ALL BAD, SIS._

"Oh my cod how are you still sane." He made a deal with one of _those_ fuckers? You groan and reach up to grab hold of one of his horns, dragging him down so he has to meet your eyes. "You're not, right? Like you were never fuckin' sane but this, this is just icing on the cake—"

He shakes his head slightly, nodding towards where his hand's still moving, erasing and rewriting. _YA'LL WERE DISAPPEARING. I'M NOT AN IDIOT—IT WAS MOTHERFUCKING OBVIOUS WHERE YOU WERE GOING._

"Yeah, dumbass, the game decided we were on the same side as the winning players and let us all get the prize t—"

Another head-shake. You feel like this one probably hurts, what with your still gripping his horn. _NOT ME. I PLAYED FOR THE WRONG TEAM, SIS. THINK ABOUT IT._

You do. 

He's...not wrong. "The shit with English," you say, and he nods even though it wasn't a question. "So you went to the _other_ bad guys."

_THEY'RE MORE LIKE GLITCHES IN THE CODE._

"What?"

_ASK CAPTOR SOMETIME._

"Yeah, no thanks." You scowl at him, then at the water as another thought occurs to you. "Wait. Are you saying there's a _horrorterror_ in _my_ fuckin' ocean?"

He shrugs. _NOT "IN IT" IN IT._

"Now what's that supposed to mean?"

Kurloz pauses. Frowns, enough that you can actually read the expression. Wipes away the words in the sand, starts to write something else, and stops again with a tiny, frustrated sound. Wait, he's not actually mute?

"Okay, forget the monsters for a sec—how come you're not just talking? The stitches are gone, don't fuckin' tell me you're still on that vow of silence shit—"

Oh. He _flinches_ at that, something you've seen almost exclusively in humans. It takes a lot of trust or a lot of trauma for a troll to show fear in that specific physical way; moirails are more likely to do it, but one troll flinching at just words from another? Means something's very wrong.

_THE PROMISE IS GONE._ Kurloz writes it very slowly, hand clenching into a fist for a moment before he adds more words directly under those two. _MOTHERFUCKER TOOK THE MESSIAHS FROM ME TOO._

"...huh." Not just his telepathy he traded, then, but his...religion? His belief? Shit, how would a horrorterror even do that—did it just change the parts of his mind that interact with that? Remove them? Show him every tiny fallacy of what he believed until he just _couldn't_ believe anymore?

Oh fuck you feel sorry for fucking Kurloz Makara. This wasn't supposed to happen.

He blinks when you groan in exasperation at yourself, watching as you jump back to your feet. He doesn't _move_ , unfortunately, so you bend over and grab his arm to haul him up. You still have to guess at what he's signing, but honestly you're pretty sure it's obvious.

"C'mon, Makara. You're comin' to my place, and _then_ we can work out what to do with you."

* * *

By "your place" you mean the one _above_ the water line, of course. The beach hive, except it's really less a hive than a house—Alternian architecture just feels _wrong_ to you when it's dry. It seemed easier to let Harley come over and spend a couple weeks collaborating on interior decor, make it weird and new to _everyone_ instead of just you.

The human touch means there's, like. Bedrooms and shit. Not that you use them—you sleep either in one of the bathtubs or on the pile of pillows, blankets, and towels that's been slowly accumulating in a corner of what Jade labeled as the living room for the past year or so. You should probably haul it all off and wash everything—it's been a couple weeks.

Not that Kurloz seems to care. He sighs as soon as you nudge him into that room, heading straight for the pile without further prompting. Good; you have better things to be doing, like leaving him to curl up and get comfortable and going into the kitchen to dig through drawers.

Cod damn it where the _fuck_ did you put it. The markers are easy to find—you've been using them to doodle on the fridge, since they're literally made to wipe right off—and the eraser is still on the counter where Kankri left it when he brought everything over to give you, but the dry erase board itself? Elusive. And sure, it's maybe two feet by one foot, but you feel like that's still not small enough to just _lose_.

Apparently you're sort of wrong about that, though, since it takes you what feels like fucking forever to find it. You don't know when or why you stashed it under the sink, either. With a communication aid retrieved, you return to the troll who definitely does not belong in your fucking house.

...and, well.

He's asleep. You stop and stare at him for a moment—you don't think you've ever seen Kurloz so...so _quiet_? Which is a stupid thought, yeah—he's always quiet, but this is...not stillness. Not the measured stiffness you're used to. He's half-buried himself in the pile, curled around a horrible lime-green pillow the catbirdkidsprite brought with his face pressed hard into the soft surface and his horns at an angle that put them at risk of tangling with at least a couple blankets. 

You sit down on the edge of the pile. You set the dry erase board and markers aside. You move the blankets that seem to you to be too near his horns, carefully nudging a couple pillows over to replace them and wondering the whole _fucking_ time why you care so much. There's _nothing_ in this for you—if you'd gone pale for him back in the game sure, that'd make sense, you'd stand to gain something just from the amount of power the guy could work up if he wanted to—but no. You feel this shit _now_ , when he's given up the cool shit just because...

Because what, exactly? Like, you get that he did it to be alive, sure, but _why_? It's not like being dead is _awful_ —that's dying. Being dead isn't even that bad. You were dead for like, a long ass time, you should know. Being dead _and_ still having chucklevoodoos puts you in a pretty damn sweet situation.

But he gave it up. For what?

Shit, your hand's in his hair. Bad Meenah. Don't pet him, you're gonna get attached.

(Well, more attached than you already are.)

You groan, push that thought away, and dig in your pocket for your phone. Might as well see what the resident expert on relationships and Makaras has to say.

Which...

Well, fuck. Who's the expert, again? Sure, Rufioh could give you pointers on any red situation, but this isn't that. Kankri could tell you all the reasons _not_ to swing pale here, but like. You can handle that just fine, you can think of a couple dozen good reasons to dump him on someone else, make him anyone's problem but yours, but you don't _want_ to do that. Meulin could probably do a decent job of explaining all the pros and cods, but...no. That'd be weird. Or something.

Cod _fucking_ damn it.

You take a deep breathe. Carefully remove your hand from where it's found its way to Kurloz's hair again. And you open a chat with someone you really haven't talked to all that much at all.

CC: yooo vantas  
CC: gotta ask you a coupla questions here

CG: IF THIS IS ABOUT MUTANT SHIT I'M GOING TO HAVE DAVE COME OVER AND AGE YOU TWENTY SWEEPS IN TWO MINUTES, MEENAH.

CC: aight what the FUCK has cronus been asking you  
CC: like it was him right   
CC: beach doesn't know the meaning of perfishonal space

CG: I HONESTLY CAN'T TELL IF THAT'S PERSONAL OR PROFESSIONAL AND I DON'T REALLY GIVE A SHIT EITHER WAY, SO...  
CG: TALK FAST, I HAVE A DATE.

CC: aww cute   
CC: bet you're all dressed up n shit already. like a lil grub with a bored lusus—dammit why am i doing this carp now oh my cod. now ain't the time for the mean girl shit. 

CG: NO FUCKING SHIT.  
CG: WHAT DO YOU WANT, MEENAH?

CC: hooo boy.  
CC: okay simple answer? how the FUCK do you tell if you've got like pale feelings for somebody or if you're just being a lil bitch?

CG: WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU ASKING ME??

CC: hey don't get all snippy at me karcrab, you're the one who's always talking to your lil human boytoy about how quadrants work

CG: CALL HIM THAT AGAIN AND I'LL *REALLY* GET SNIPPY WITH YOU.  
CG: WELL. SLASHY. SAME THING.  
CG: IT TOOK US FUCKING YEARS TO FIGURE OUT WHAT THE FUCK WE ARE TO EACH OTHER, DUMBASS. SOMEHOW I DON'T THINK YOU HAVE ENOUGH PATIENCE FOR THAT SHIT.

CC: yeaaaah nope  
CC: different question then? how the fuck do I stop having a pale crush on somebody?

CG: HA.   
CG: IS IT ARANEA? PLEASE DEAR GOG TELL ME IT'S ARANEA. SERKETS IN GENERAL NEED A FUCKING MOIRAIL TO KEEP THEM ON TRACK AND I FEEL LIKE THE ONLY REASON SHE HASN'T TRIED TO TAKE OVER EARTH C IS BECAUSE SHE HASN'T FIGURED OUT HOW TO GET AROUND JADE AND DIRK.

CC: oooh I should get together with her on that one...

CG: NO.

CC: killjoy  
CC: it's makara btw

CG: EXCUSE ME WHILE I HAMMER MY HEAD INTO THE WALL—YOU'RE PALE FOR FUCKING GAMZEE?  
CG: MEENAH, I BARELY KEPT THAT SHIT TOGETHER AND I'VE KNOWN HIM FUCKING FOREVER, THIS IS A HORRIBLE IDEA.

CC: oh cod no  
CC: the other one

CG: OH. HUH.  
CG: SO KURLOZ IS BACK, THEN?

CC: yeaaaah I'll explain later but he's back, minus some body mods and the chucklevoodoos.  
CC: passed out in my pile actually.

CG: BACK UP.  
CG: HIS TELEPATHY MIND CONTROL BULLSHIT'S GONE?

CC: uhhh yeah?

CG: ...HUH.  
CG: I DIDN'T KNOW THAT WAS A THING.

CC: yeah join the fuckin club, vantas.  
CC: don't ask how he did it because I'm not totally sure he's up for that getting out yet  
CC: aren't we off topic? let's talk about ME again.

CG: YEAH, YEAH, YOU'RE HAVING A CRISIS BECAUSE YOU FEEL LIKE BEING NICE TO SOMEONE FOR ONCE. VERY FUCKING IMPORTANT.

CC: ...  
CC: fuck you

CG: YOU'LL HAVE TO TALK TO MY BOYFRIEND ABOUT THAT.   
CG: BUT SERIOUSLY. I PROMISE QUADRANTING WITH SOMEONE ISN'T NEARLY AS TERRIFYING AS IT FEELS. IT'S WEIRD FOR A WHILE, THEN YOU GET COMFORTABLE AND SHIT GOES UPHILL FOR ONCE IN YOUR FUCKING LIFE.

CC: that's about you, isn't it.

CG: A LITTLE BIT. 

CC: bitch you're not even doing quads, oh my cod. everyone knows you've got the human thing going with shades mcdouche.

CG: IT'S THE SAME THING, TRUST ME. THERE'S CONSTANTS IN RELATIONSHIPS NO MATTER WHAT FLAVOR THEY ARE.

CC: uh huh i totally trust you on that. definitely.  
CC: ha. deFINitely.

CG: FUCK, I THOUGHT I WAS ESCAPING THE FUCKING FISH PUNS.

CC: I'm finna come fight you.

CG: LOOKING FORWARD TO IT. 

Damn, he's not even a little intimidated. Bastard. You groan, drop your phone to rub at your forehead, realize that the only reason you _need_ to drop it is because you're _still_ running your hand through Kurloz's hair (a lot of the tangles seem to be gone now) and nearly scream with frustration.

Or maybe it's not really _nearly_ , because you definitely make a sound. Not a super loud one, but enough that Kurloz tips his head back to meet your eyes.

Oh, fuck, he's been awake this whole time. You grimace at that lil' realization, and he gives you a tiny smile and slides down far enough to get the dry erase board. 

"Yeah, that's—you got it." You pull your hand away and cross your arms, like that doesn't make you look like a fucking idiot. "So, like—how're you feeling, I guess?"

He glances up at you, then uncaps a purple marker and starts scribbling. You wait until he turns the board to let you read, showing slightly unsteady lettering that reminds you of official edicts handwritten on heavy paper, back on Beforus.

**LIKE THERE'S LESS MOTHERFUCKING SAND IN MY HAIR. THANKS FOR THAT.**

"Oh. Uh...yeah." Don't say something stupid. _Don't_ say something stupid. "...y'know what, scoot up here a bit and I'll finish getting the knots out 'n braid it for you, yeah?"

Kurloz hums, a soft, thoughtful sound. Then he wipes the board with his sleeve and starts writing again, turning it around to show you after a moment. **DON'T THINK YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE GETTING INTO THERE, SIS.**

"Oh, please. I've done Megido's hair—Aradia, not Damara. Yours can't be worse than that." When he snorts and shifts to turn away from you, bowing his head, you let out a breath and start finger-combing again. His hair's too thick and not straight enough to use a brush, you think—later you can see if he'll let you dig out the moisturizing shit you use when you absolutely have to redo your own braids and fix him up with it. Well, if there is a later.

Shit. He's sitting there with his head bowed and his back to you, the curve of his neck where the spinal cord meets the skull exposed to...whatever. Not that you'd do anything. Not that you _could_ do anything.

Not that he knows that. Or maybe he does—what kind of troll puts himself in this situation if they're not angling for a moiraillegence?

Fuck, you're overthinking it. How about you concentrate on dealing with this instead of thinking about anything? There's plenty to concentrate on—you get the tangles out, section off a chunk to braid as tightly as you can, then wrap the braid around the rest to hold it back in something that's just about a bun centered between his long horns. You don't actually have a hairtie handy, other than...

Yeah. You pull one of your braids up and undo the magenta tie holding the end secure, using it for his instead. Yours should stay for a while anyway, unless you forget and take a dip without replacing it anyway.

Kurloz taps the board once you've got his hair squared away, drawing your attention to the writing there. **FEELS LIKE YOU PUT A SHIT TON OF WORK INTO THAT, SIS.**

"Eh, that shit's calming. Plus now you don't look like something the meowbeast dragged in."

**THAT BAD, HUH?**

"Oh yeah, definitely." You snort and scoot back, waiting for him to turn to face you. "Now you look good, though."

"Mm." It's just a sound, but hey! It's a sound! Kurloz frowns slightly after making it, reaching to to feel what you've done to his hair—he looks different without the wild cloud, not quite sleek since you didn't have anything to smooth it down with but still a hell of a lot less menacing—then nods, wiping and writing again. **READY TO KICK ME OUT NOW, THEN?**

"Nah, not unless you make me address the trunkbeast in the block."

He blinks. Considers. Holds up the board again. **THE WHAT??**

Ohhhhh shit. That second part probably should have stayed in your head, huh. Eh, can't back out now. "Y'know, the possible pale feelings thing? Pretty shore you didn't just, like, miss it. It's not like I'm great at not being obvious."

Another few blinks. You think it might be confusion, but you're really not sure. Kurloz is no help with helping you tell what he's thinking—he looks down after a moment, writing something and stopping halfway to wipe it away and start over before wiping _that_ off until you just want to scream.

Finally, he sighs and holds up the board. **WHY?**

"Oh my fucking—Makara, do I _look_ like I know why I wanna swing pale for you?"

**DO I LOOK LIKE I KNOW WHAT THAT LOOKS LIKE?**

"You're _so_ not helping. Look, I just—" You just _what_ , exactly? You just like him like that? You're just having a moment of insanity? It doesn't feel like a moment of insanity, honestly. It feels...nice. Well, when you're not trying to figure out how to get rid of it. "Look, I just want to know what you want here."

He considers that for a couple seconds. Then, **DON'T THINK THAT MATTERS. NOT LIKE I KNOW HOW TO PLAY PALE, SIS.**

"Riiiiight, and you think I do."

**TOUCHÉ.** Just the one word, in the middle of the board. Kurloz gives you a tiny, crooked smile to go with it, then wipes the board clean with his sleeve to give himself a fresh slate. **WE COULD LEARN.**

Oh. That's a _yes_ , and holy shit does it make your gut feel weird. "Yeah, we can try to learn. Getting a second try at life means that's a hell of a lot easier to do, y'know?"

**I'LL TAKE YOUR WORD FOR IT, SIS.** He huffs, a closed-mouth sound that you realize after a second is supposed to be a laugh. **DON'T SUPPOSE YOU WANT TO HELP ME FIGURE OUT HOW TO TELL EVERYONE ELSE I GOT THAT SECOND TRY?**

"Yeah, of course." Your phone's laying to the side in the pile; you snag it and slide down a bit to sit next to him. "What else is a decent diamond for?"

Kurloz shrugs, and writes, and shows you. **WE'LL HAVE TO FIND THAT OUT AS WE GO.**

Yeah.

You guess you will.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi i lied about this being completed.

You guess maybe Karkat's a bit better at keeping his mouth shut than _your_ Vantas, because after a week you still haven't gotten any texts about your new and possibly semipermanent hivemate. No one's just shown up to ask about him either, which you honestly expect from Meulin as soon as she finds out. 

If she wants to beat the shit out of Kurloz, you don't think you'll stop her. He pulled some shitty stunts when you were all alive, and even more when you were all dead; if Meu swings black for him you can't really blame her and you're _so_ not cut out to even try to be anyone's ashen quad. Stepping in between Kurloz and any of his hypothetical partners isn't exactly your job. 

Patching him up after might be, though. The thought makes you feel funny, when you think about it—like the world's moving under your feet, all around you, counter to the stillness of the land or the surge of the ocean. You wonder if this is what Latula means when she talks about being seasick. 

It doesn't matter. It's just another weird pale thing you never expected, like dragging him out of the pile and onto the beach so he can soak up the gentler sun of Earth C for a little bit while you dive for shells and hunt fish, or making sure he actually eats the fish you do catch once you've cooked it. There's way too many weird and unexpected pale things if you start counting, you think. 

So you don't count. Simple. Easy to just not do that—you can spend the energy you would have wasted on keeping track of where he's most likely to spend his time. The conclusion that you've come to so far on that one is "asleep in your living room." You still don't exactly have a handle on this planet's timekeeping—it's set up to match more closely with the human homeworld than the troll one—but you'd guess that Kurloz spends a good half of each day asleep, half-buried in blankets that you keep adding so he'll be comfortable enough. Part of you wants to worry about that—you vaguely remember Kankri saying something about avoidance, something about depression, something about something you honestly weren't listening to in the first place—but the greater part points out that hey, he's just tired. He's...recovering. 

Recovering from _what_ , you don't know. Being dead is a fairly binary deal; you are, or you aren't, or you're stuck between the two states until something pushes you hard enough towards on or the other. There's no _recovery_ needed when you switch states, nothing but the mental adjustment of hey! Gotta eat and sleep and do normal living things again! 

Damn. Now you sound like Captor—Sollux, not Mituna. Mituna would just call all this philisophical musing bullshit and move on. 

You wonder what Mituna would say about Kurloz. You wonder if Kurloz would give a shit about what he had to say. One of those is more or less safe and easy to find out, if you open your mouth and ask. 

"So...are we ever gonna spill the beans about you being back to everyone else, or nah?" 

Dammit, that's only kind of adjacent to what you meant to say. Kurloz looks up from his contemplation of one of the more common visitors to this stretch of beach—a crab-looking thing about the size of your palm, close to what you remember from Beforus but so brightly colored that the little red guys surprise you every time you see them. He's been holding it captive, corraled in the makeshift prison of his cupped hands; when you ask your (stupid) question he raises them to sign an answer, remembers that you _still_ only kind of manage to follow that kind of conversation, and sighs as he watches the crab scuttle for the safety of the water. 

Oops. "I'll catch you another one later, bro." 

Kurloz's head tilts curiously, but he doesn't comment on the offer (or, as you realize later, on what you called him. Dammit. That's not a word you should have used without asking.) Instead he picks up the dry erase board and marker and writes for a moment, holding it up to you. 

**HOW LONG DO YOU THINK I CAN GET AWAY WITH NOT DOING THAT?**

Well damn, you've been asking yourself that question for a full week before you served the ball into his court. Too bad he kicked it right back at you without even realizing that was what it was. "I dunno. Why, did you wanna never talk to anyone but me again? I mean, I'm great and all, shore, but you've got to want to see some of them again—" 

Yeah. That's the wrong thing to say. Kurloz flinches hard, and you shut up as he flips the board around to wipe it clean again. God fuckin' dammit, Meenah. _Why_ do you have such an idiot filter between your thinkpan and your mouth? Why can't you just stop talking? 

"We could just tell one or two people at a time, you know? It'd be fine, you just have to pick—"

Kurloz drops the board and marker in the sand, and you nearly groan in frustration as he brings his hands together. You're _trying_ to learn sign language for real this time, you really are, but you're still struggling to keep letters straight and his hands move _fast_ and you feel so stupid when you can't catch every sign of he uses one you don't know and—and it sucks. It really sucks.

But he just moves his fingers into a shape every wriggler fresh out of the caverns knows—thumbs touching at the tips and pointed down, index fingers carrying through the arc of the palm to complete the simple symbol, one quarter of the components for the intricate web of Beforian relationships. If there's a sign for Meulin's name, he's never shown it to you; she's just his heart.

"Yeah. Meulin. Hey, I've got her pesterchum—"

Kurloz gives you a look that doesn't actually involve rolling his eyes. It feels like it does, though. He starts to sign something out, then makes one of those soft irritated sounds that you're getting used to hearing when he thinks he's fucked up and snatches up the marker again, scribbling on the board without picking it up.

**WHAT, YOU THINK I MOTHERFUCKING FORGOT? I COULD CONTACT HER, I**

He stops. Hesitates. Swipes one sleeve across the board and the other across his eyes. Stares at the blank white space ( _white as a ghost's eyes_ , you think and then promptly shove to the back of your mind) for a moment and...well.

Hurls the marker into the ocean.

Hm. You're not sure you know how to handle that. You postpone figuring it out for a couple minutes, by getting up and wading out to retrieve the marker. The local wildlife doesn't need that shit, after all. Kurloz doesn't move at all in the time it takes you to settle back beside him and recap the marker (which you doubt will be working now). As far as you can tell, he's not fucking _breathing._

Definitely still alive, though. A corpse wouldn't try to duck away when you reached up to wipe his face off, and Kurloz _totally_ does that. Whines deep in his throat when you grab his chin and force him to hold still and let you clean him up, too.

For some reason, the thought _at least it's not blood_ comes to mind as you wipe his face clean. Stupid. You _know_ how to deal with blood. Of course you do. You're Meenah fucking Piexes; it's not like you haven't patched up a couple flushed (and pitch) partners after...interesting escapades.

Wow that did not come out how you expected it to even in your mind. Crimes. You like dates that involve minor crimes, mostly property damage with a side of assault and battery. That's all. Get your mind out of the gutter, beach.

You drag your traitorous thoughts back to what they're supposed to be focused on, and find that your hands carried on just fine without external help. There's traces of pale purple on your fingers, but none that you can see on Kurloz's face; he's closed his eyes, leaning his head forward slightly towards the hand that's moved up to his hairline.

And you _still_ haven't smeared the paint. "What is it with your fuckin' makeup, bro?"

His eyes open, just enough for you to see a sliver of gold and indigo. His hands come together for a second; then he rethinks the idea of trying to sign clearly enough for you to understand, and instead reaches a hand up to drag one finger down his face, across the borders between black and white without leaving a mark.

You don't get it. Kurloz sees that you don't, after a second, and takes your hand to guide it to his cheek. Maybe it's just a ploy to be touched, but you guess you'll roll with that; you run your fingers across his skin, feeling for....well, you don't know. It just feels like _skin_.

Then he closes his eyes and nudges your hand towards his eyelids, and _now_ your fingertips come away black. "Oh—huh. How come this smears and the rest doesn't?"

Kurloz hums and digs in a jacket pocket for a monent. Somehow, you're not surprised when he comes up with another marker—the other purple one that you thought you lost a couple perigees ago, unless you're very much mistaken.

**THE REST AIN'T PAINT, SIS. SPENT HALF A SWEEP HAVING IT INKED ON—NOT EVEN THE BROTHERS'LL DO YOUR EYES UNLESS YOU PLAN ON TAKING THE PATH OF THE DARK.**

"It's all tattoos?" You can't hide the grimace when he nods. "Shit, remind me to never makes bets on _your_ pain tolerance."

He smiles. No, he grins like a shark, actually showing his teeth for once and meeting your eyes for a moment before he looks down to write. **JUST HAVE TO THINK ABOUT WHICH SIDE TO BET ON, RIGHT?**

"Ew, no. Enough masochism from everyone, thanks." You roll your eyes at him and drop the hand with his paint on it to wipe the black off on your shirt. Aranea would _hate_ you right now. Then again you can't really tell if she just hates you all the time at this point, so you guess it doesn't matter. "So does it go all the way down?"

Kurloz laughs. Actually laughs, a soft snort that he doesn't quite muffle. You _like_ how it sounds. That's weird. **DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT SOUNDED LIKE, SIS?**

Hm. "Ampora-worthy pickup line?"

**BINGO.** Another little snort, as he wipes and rewrites. **INK ON MY HANDS UNDER.THE GLOVES, AND OUTLINES ON MY CHEST AND LEGS. NO FULL-COVERAGE SHIT ANYWHERE BUT MY FACE, THOUGH. MORE MOTHERFUCKING WORK THAN IT'S WORTH.**

"I mean, I feel like even a full-face tattoo is a stupid amount of work for somebody who was gonna die before they hit eight sweeps."

Kurloz pauses, eyes flicking up to meet yours. There's an expression on his face that you can actually read for once; you think it's...surprise? Maybe surprise. You don't know why surprise would make him hesitate for what seems like forever, and then sit back on his heels to do a _lot_ of writing, though. Maybe if you wait patiently (something you're never going to get better at doing) you'll get to find out.

And eventually, he does cap the marker again and turn the board around, actually handing it to you to read. You understand why—there's a lot of writing this time, written much smaller than Kurloz's normal conversation.

**FUNNY. YOU MEAN A WASTE OF TIME, NOT A STUPID AMOUNT OF WORK. CAN'T SAY YOU'RE WRONG, EITHER—IT WAS STUPID. COULDA HAD OTHER SHIT GOING ON—BETTER SHIT, PROBABLY. BUT THEN AGAIN MOST OF WHAT WE DID BEFORE WE DIED BECAME MOTHERFUCKING POINTLESS ONCE THE GAME STARTED, DIDN'T IT? YOUR ROYALTY, ZAHHAK'S WORK WITH RUFIOH, FUCKING _EVERYTHING_.**

He's underlined that last word, with a hard stroke that looks angry on the board. You stare at it for a second, then keep reading.

**AND EVERYTHING IN THE GAME, TOO—THAT WAS POINTLESS, WASN'T IT? SERKET PULLED SOME SHIT THAT COULDA BEEN MOTHERFUCKING TRANSCENDENT—I FELT THE UNIVERSE PAUSE FOR IT, MEDITATE ON WHAT SHE'D WROUGHT AND HOW SHE'D CHANGED WHAT COULD HAVE COME—BUT SOMETHING CHANGED AND NOTHING CHANGED. WE DID _NOTHING_ , MEENAH. NOTHING TO STOP THE END OF THE WORLD, AND NOTHING TO SHAPE THE NEW ONE. I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE THE MOTHERFUCKING SILENT MOUTHPIECE, THE ONE WHO SHAPES THE UNIVERSE INTO THE LIKENESS OF THE MESSIAHS, AND HERE I AM. HERE I MOTHERFUCKING AM, ALIVE BY THE GRACE OF A MOTHERFUCKING ABOMINATION, A BLIGHT ON THE MOTHERFUCKING UNIVERSE, ON A WORLD THE MESSIAHS HAD NO HAND IN AND WOULD HAVE NEVER DREAMED OF. HERE I AM, AND EVERYTHING BOILS DOWN TO WHAT YOU SAID. "SEEMS LIKE A STUPID AMOUNT OF WORK FOR SOMEONE'S WHO'S GOING TO DIE BEFORE HE HITS EIGHT SWEEPS."**

You reach the end of what's written and look up. Kurloz is sitting there, too stiff and too still when you hold the board out to him again; you should probably know better than to drop it in the sand and reach out to put your hands on his shoulders, but hey. Seadwellers learn slow, sometimes.

As soon as you touch him whatever force of will he's exerting to hold himself wire-taut just...disappears. Suddenly he's shaking under your hands, face twisting up in what really looks like pain for a second before he brings both hands up to cover the expression, hide it from you.

Somehow you still weren't expecting him to sag forward into your hands. Dammit, you don't have the right grip to catch him—the best you can do is just let him not-quite-fall until he's curled in the sand with his head in your lap, awkwardly angled so he's not stabbing you with those long horns.

You shift so he's not going to have a sore neck when he gets his shit together enough to sit up, stifle a sigh, and run your fingers through the fine frizz of hair that's already escaped the braids you did for him this morning. "We're such a _fucking_ mess."

Kurloz doesn't pull his hands away from his face. That means the laugh he chokes out at your statement is muffled, and you almost miss what comes after it.

"No—no _shit_ we are."

It's four words, spoken so quietly you barely hear. It's four fucking words, and you get another one of those weird feelings in your chest—you're pretty sure that's the first time he's talked since way before he died.

It feels like an omen, somehow. As much as you don't give a shit about fate, this entire moment—it feels like a taste of change to come, the little piece of the universe that spins around you getting ready to reorient itself again. And yeah, you're about sick of upheavals...but maybe, just _maybe_ , this one will be a little more worthwhile.


End file.
